"She's devastated by her actions, just keeps crying and bemoaning her impulsiveness," Elsie had explained, reaching into the open draw to fish out a nightdress. "Honestly, I'm at a loss as to what to say to her."
Charles had just harrumphed. He'd thought he'd known what had occurred between Mr Mason and Mrs Patmore but he'd not thought it as bad as this, although in all honesty he'd deliberately not asked for details. And rather than offer anything insightful in response to her monologue, he'd pretended to focus on folding his shirts. Their train wasn't too early in the morning but there'd not be enough time to pack.
"If only he'd come to see her sooner," Elsie'd said, starting to place her clothes into her side of the case that was spread open between them across the bed. "It might have lessened her embarrassment. But left alone the thought of it has built up and up and likely made it seem much worse than it is." She'd looked across as to him, "Why was that, do you think?"
"Why what?" he'd asked, studiously avoiding her eye by silently counting out pairs of socks, checking he had a sufficient number.
"Why didn't he come around sooner," she'd explained. "He must have known it was out of character for her to behave like that? It's almost cruel to avoid her and let her think she'd shamed herself."
And that was the moment, he thought now, just then was when he should have owned up to the advice he'd given, advice that in retrospect had been wrong and ill-thought out. Or more accurately not thought out at all. But he'd procrastinated, delayed, avoided until his confession had burst out of him accompanied by his usual gruffness and stubborn pride. Pride that would certainly prevent an apology now, even a reluctant one.
Charles slipped from the bed, determined not to disturb her, and padded barefoot for the bathroom. What a luxury to have a small ensuite, she'd commented when they'd seen the room and he'd felt pleased that he'd opted to spend out a little. He closed the door behind him, holding the handle firmly and letting it turn slowly before only the quietest of clicks could be heard to confirm it was shut. He stood at the sink and stared at the old man looking back at him in the mirror, hair fluffed from sleep, eyes red and puffy from tossing and turning as he'd wondered and worried what to do. They'd argued before, more often as comrades than as husband and wife, but this felt different. He'd cut her with his words but it wasn't that which hurt her the most, he saw that now.
He busied himself with a quick wash and dressed in yesterday's clothes that he'd left folded neatly over the side of the bath. A damp comb tempered his hair and satisfied he was respectable snuck quietly from the bathroom. His shoes were tucked under the chair and pausing to pick them up on his way past he opened the door to their room, a final glance at the pile of blankets on the bed under which she slept, and set off down the corridor and out of the hotel.
It was the heat of the morning sun that woke her, its warm rays creeping through the not-quite-closed curtains that hung heavily at the window.. They must have parted at some point in the night, she supposed as she allowed herself to slowly gain full consciousness, knocked by Charles on a midnight dash to the bathroom no doubt. She'd slept deeply, the effects of travel combining with the sheer effort of staying mad at him having taken their toll. They'd reached a peace of sorts, a chaste kiss before they'd settled to sleep, but as she'd drifted off she resolved that she'd find a way to tell him what it was that had bothered her so much and then she'd finally be able to let it rest.
Through half-open eyes she could see her side of the room, bathed in a pinkish-grey, the effect of sunlight filtering through red fabric. It wasn't particularly opulent but it was clean and tastefully decorated with framed pen illustrations of the bay on the walls. The bed with his solid wood headboard was larger than theirs at home meaning their pillows were not as squashed together, a little air possible between them as they lay side by side. But she thought she'd dreamed of him last night. The delicious feeling of imagined intimacy lingering in her thoughts, the phantom sensation of his broad, rough hands on her skin as they'd been drawn to one another in her mind.
She'd worried in recent weeks, their tentative marital relations that had built into a crescendo of passion fading into something more gentler, more mellow. Not that it wasn't lovely, the way he held her hand when no one could observe them, or how he'd sit close to her on the settee some evenings and caress her knee as he listened to the wireless. But it wasn't the fervour it had been and yet there'd been that glorious day when they'd come together not only on waking but again before they'd slept. Perhaps it had been the memory of that which had spawned her dream.
She closed her eyes. She could swear that she could transport herself back to it just by wishing herself there. The thrill of his thumb brushing her cheek as he kissed her, the feel of him stirring against her thigh as it deepened, the tingling anticipation gathering as she yearned for him to shed them of their bedclothes and take her. In her own private fantasy she'd be bolder, grab his buttocks and pull them forcefully to her, mutter forbidden words to urge him on, demand that he draw out her exalted bliss so it lasted for an eternity. As the scene played itself out in her mind she knew that the touch of her hand against herself would fulfil her desire, as it had when she was alone in the stillness of her attic bedroom. It would be a familiar return to something borne out of necessity, that had been a sin perhaps but had sustained her through years without the comfort of touch in any guise. But she didn't need that now, she had all she needed lying peaceful alongside her.
She turned to lay on her back, to reach an arm towards him. He may take some persuading, she thought, after he coldness towards him but he'd acquiesce if she ran her palm over his stomach. She knew she could elicit a lustful growl if she toyed with him, tempt him by taking a pass at that lying hidden beneath his pyjama trousers. But her hand found nothing to tease, just the barely warm sheet where he'd lain. She frowned and opened her eyes, blinking even in the semi-darkness as she searched for him but found nothing. He was gone.
Charles feared he'd made a rash decision as he contemplated the steep slope that meandered through the village. He was stronger in some ways than he used to be but not having to ascend several flights of stairs on a daily basis meant he'd lost some of his stamina. He was sure he'd find what he was looking for but didn't relish the climb up the cobbled street that it might involve. But if that's what it took then so be it, he concluded. He stood for a moment longer and realising they'd not passed anything resembling a post office on their descent he set off in the opposite direction.
It was early but there were already signs of the coastal village coming to life, the odd shout of a fisherman as they scurried about on the decks of their trawlers. Whether they were on their way in or out of the bay it was hard to tell. Many of the shutters at the windows of the cottages most exposed to the power of winter storms were secured back against their walls, the commencement of morning chores audible through open windows. And after just a few minutes he found it, situated on the end of a run of buildings just above the harbour. The red post box buried in the brick wall, its smart double-fronted windows flagging the stone steps worn down with years of foot traffic.
Encouraged by the door having been propped open he made his way inside. A lady of perhaps twenty was bent over a heavy ledger resting on the counter, a stack of letters beside her. He cleared his throat to announce his arrival, causing her to look up.
"Can I help you, Sir?" she asked, her thick coastal accent softened by the gentleness with which she spoke. "You're a little early if you're wanting the morning post. I've not got to sorting it yet."
Charles couldn't help but smile, something about her manner was quite charming. It reminded him of Anna, with her kind but efficient manner.
"No, it wasn't the post. I was hoping to send a telegram and also to make a call."
"Oh, well that'll be no problem," she replied easily, passing him a slip of paper and a pencil.
She pushed aside a small parcel that was waiting its turn to be sorted to create some space on which he could lean, a small shrug of the shoulders as he thanked her and began to compose his message. He'd been going over the words for some hours but now he came to commit them to paper they seemed forced and he began to doubt the whole scheme.
"Can I help you?" she asked after a while. "I'm used to helping folk find the right way of saying what they need to, you know."
Charles started. He'd been miles away, his frown fixed on the pretty display of rocks and shells behind her.
Sorry," she said blushing as he stared at her, "My uncle's always telling me not to interfere."
"No, no," he stuttered, "I was thinking about something else." He hesitated. "What are those?" he asked, nodding towards the shelf.
She turned to see what he was looking at. "Oh them. Those are my little collection from the bay. Nothing really." She reached for one and passed it to him, "I like to take my lunch on the beach and when I spot something I like I bring it back and pop it here." She watched as Charles turned over the hard, grey pebble in his hands, tracing the pattern on the underside of it with his thumb "That one's an Ammonite," she explained. "You get them all along this stretch."
"It's fascinating to hold one," he acknowledged. "I've read about them but not seen one outside of a museum."
"You're not from here, are you? You sound a bit different." Charles baulked slightly at the familiarity and she rushed to apologise. "Sorry, that was rude. It's none of my business."
"Not at all," he offered kindly. "You caught me off guard, that's all. I'm not used to anyone asking about me. And you're right, I am visiting. A little trip with my wife."
She cocked her head, her green eyes wide as she contemplated her next thought. "Why does no one ever ask about you?" she asked, her tone a mix of outrage and wonder. "I'm always asking as you can tell. I find people endlessly interesting."
He chuckled at her youthful enthusiasm, "Perhaps because I'm well known where I live and…" he paused as he considered whether to carry on, "I suppose people are generally a little intimidated by me."
She seemed surprised at that, "Well, you don't seem very scary," she said simply.
"Mabel!" came a shout from a figure that had appeared in the doorway. "Stop your chit chatting and get on," the man admonished. "I'm sure this gentleman has better things to be doing than listening to your ramblings."
"Sorry Uncle," she said meekly, bowing her head.
Charles intervened, "This nice young lady was about to help with a little composition problem I seem to be having," gesturing to the telegram slip in front of him. "I'll not keep her too long from her duties if you're happy to oblige me with her assistance."
The man grimaced, "Aye, well I'll not deny she's good with words," he moved towards the back of the shop, opening a wooden door that led to what Charles presumed was a stock room. "Don't keep him long," he warned with his finger pointing towards his niece before disappearing, the door closing behind him.
"I didn't mean to get you into trouble," Charles said apologetically.
Mabel shook her head, "I'm perfectly capable of getting myself into that," she laughed lightly. "Now, why don't you tell me what you're trying to say."
